Our Memories Fade With Age
by procrastin8or951
Summary: Post "The Strip Strangler" oneshot. Nick's response to his crime scene scare. Prequel to "Stalker" also. Review please!


_Creeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaak. _

_Nick spun around and shone his flash light towards the closet. The light bobbed around a little as he stood, creeping slowly towards the doors. He took his flashlight in the other hand, uneasily. His heart pounded heavily, blood rushing in his ears. _

_He reached out a hand and pushed the door to the closet further open, and a light snapped on. A blur of blue fabric and red hair as he jumped backwards. _

_"Hey!" the word ripped from his throat involuntarily as he reached for his gun. _

_Click. _

_She got there first. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice awfully kindly for someone who was pointing a gun at him. "But I can't let you leave here with that." _

_BANG!_

"No!" Nick yelled, struggling to sit up, thrashing against the sheets that were tangled about his body, threatening to strangle him.

"Just a dream," he muttered. "Not real."

He gave the sheets one last tug, finally freeing himself and almost toppling out of his bed in the process. Nick then stood up and made his way towards his kitchen to get a glass of water.

_Didn't happen_, he told himself. _Stop being stupid. _

It had only been a reporter, looking for information on an investigation too famous for its own good. She hadn't hurt him or even threatened to…

In fact, the only time he had been threatened on the job was in the Hendler case. Which, he reminded himself as he drank his water, was months ago, and he hadn't even gotten hurt. So why worry about it?

Except he did worry about it. He still thought about what would have happened if Grissom had been only a second later. Still wondered if she would have hit him, or missed. Wondered how he hadn't seen what was right in front of him, that she was the killer, not her husband.

_Stop it, _he berated himself. Life should not be a series of 'what ifs.' That was no way to live.

But still….what if that reporter hadn't been a reporter. What if she had pulled a gun? Worse, what if he had shot her, in his haze of fear and anxiety?

He shook his head. It hadn't happened. Thus, there was no point in thinking about it. It didn't make a difference, right?

Nick stumbled back down the hall to his room, collapsing on the bed, wrapping his arms around a pillow and closing his eyes.

_Creeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaak._ He sat up.

Now this was just ridiculous. Clearly there was no one out to get him, nor was there anyone in his house. He fell back and closed his eyes again.

_Creeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaak._ He sighed and opened his eyes. _Damn reporters. How the hell is a guy supposed to get any sleep?_ He stomped over to his closet and flung the door open. He shoved some clothes to the side until he could see the back wall. Nothing.

_Happy now?_ he asked his subconscious. _You're talking to yourself. Stop it._ He shook his head and flopped back onto his bed.

_Click._ He sat straight up in bed. No one there. He lay down again.

_Click_. Well, now, that just wasn't fair. He had already spent a good amount of time getting over his feelings about the Hendler case. They were gone, in the past.

_Click_. Nick stood and stalked over to the door of his room, which he slammed shut and locked. _Ha. Let's see you get me now._ Pause. _Stop talking to yourself_.

He fell into bed again and pulled his blanket up to his chin. _No one's there. Go to sleep_.

_"I'm sorry."_ He checked the lock on his window and pulled the blinds down further.

He was tired, so very tired. Why couldn't he just sleep?

For that matter, why couldn't reporters respect crime scenes? Why couldn't murderers just learn from their actions instead of trying to kill people who figured out what they so desperately tried to cover up?

The word did not work that way, he concluded. Reporters are nosy, murderers are crazy, and his own subconscious was way too persistent. Obviously he wasn't getting much more sleep. Still though, why not? Why did he care so much about one little, harmless incident?

_Because it's never just one, is it?_ The Hendler case, the Strip Strangler, and probably more to come.

How long could he be lucky enough to avoid the incident that would lead to his demise?

_Not nearly long enough_.

He didn't want to die. Clearly. But why must he spend his life having nightmares of dying? What good was that?

_Maybe it's some sort of hint. _To change professions or something? He liked his job.

_Or a warning_.

Like his subconscious could know. No, he was just being stupid. That was all there was to it. _Just forget about it_.

He made himself more comfortable in his bed, closed his eyes, and within minutes was finally asleep again.

* * *

_Finally….finally_, he thought, as Nick fell into a deep sleep. He had paced around almost frantically, making tiny adjustments to his environment, as though there was something out of place, when clearly nothing was.

But finally, he had fallen asleep. And now he could just be watched.

Settling in for a few good hours of observation, Nigel Crane grinned, perfectly content.


End file.
